


Feed Me

by GreatGawain



Series: Floyd Fun [3]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreatGawain/pseuds/GreatGawain
Summary: Roger vows to go on a brief hunger strike until the object of his desire addresses their unspoken attractions (lightly edited from original dA submission)
Relationships: Roger Waters/Richard Wright
Series: Floyd Fun [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772377
Kudos: 9





	Feed Me

"Come on Roggie darling, please, you _have_ to eat," Judy Waters insisted one warm May morning. Roger Waters sat slumped at the kitchen table, arms folded and long brown hair shadowing his face. His eyes were narrowed and as dark as his clothes, mirroring his current mood. The occasional chirping bird from outside the window irritated him to the point of annoyance, but for his wife's sake he tried his best to keep his calm. Or as calm as possible.  
"No," he muttered. Simply as that. "I refuse to eat anything."  
"But why? Dear, can't you tell me?" his wife pleaded. She walked over to him and bent over his shoulders, placing her hands gently on his arms. Leaning in close to his ear, she whispered, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"  
"Nothing's wrong," he mumbled, slightly entranced by his wife's actions. He shook himself out of the intimate haze, however, and resumed his folded-arm scowl. Judy straightened and looked at him for a moment longer, hands on her hips and a look of confusion on her delicate face.

"Well… I can't force you to eat," she finally concluded, "but I just hope you'll make yourself something. I don't want you to starve."  
"That's exactly what I'm _doing_ ," he whispered angrily to himself as she walked away, up the stairs of their two-story home. He sighed exasperatedly and thought about the reason for his hunger strike: brown hair, warm eyes, and eyelashes… eyelashes that would put his own spouse to bitter shame.

And it was because of them that Roger refused to eat. He made up his mind that until they talked to him about what Roger wanted to speak of, he would not touch a crumb of food. "Nothing until it's resolved," he swore to himself. And for whatever reason, he had convinced himself that it would be a perfect plan.

"Rog, are you hungry?" Nick asked one day while Roger, David and himself were in the studio, jamming lazily on an improvised piece. Roger glared at him.  
"No," he snapped. Nick's eyebrows raised just slightly, as they always did when he took a sharp response from his band mate. Seconds later, however, to reinforce his question, a rolling growl came from the direction where Roger was, but he ignored it as he continued to pluck fervently at his bass. David and Nick exchanged glances.  
"…Are you _sure_ you don't want anything to eat?" David asked cautiously. "You sound pretty hungry…"  
"I don't want any Goddamn food, alright?" he hissed, flashing his green eyes up. They were all silent after that.

Until he came in.

HE came in. Roger looked at him and felt the wind fly right out of his lungs. He was beautiful. He looked absolutely gorgeous, as always. Flawless. Magnificent. Roger felt insignificant while in his presence. He shyly hid his eyes behind his bangs and pretended not to notice him from where he sat with his guitar, but to not notice him was perfectly impossible.

"Ok, are we ready? …Something the matter, Rog? You look awfully pale…"  
"N- nothing, everything's fine," he stuttered. He mentally slapped himself in the face. Why did he have to act so _stupid_ in front of him?!  
"Well… alright then" he said, with a wary eye. Roger kept his eyes down as HE took his seat at the organ. They played for hours on end, but every minute Roger felt like he was lost in the sound, trapped within the air of the recording room, bouncing off the walls with the noise. He could hardly focus, his fingers slipped, and on several occasions the band had to stop altogether to wake up Roger enough that he would stay alert.

When the session finally ended, he came over to Roger and took him by the shoulders, forcing him to look into his angelic face.  
"Roger. Are you sure you're alright?" he asked seriously. Roger looked into the precious blue irises and felt his heart melt. His skin flushed under his gentle touch…  
"I- I'm fine. I'm fine."  
He had enough trouble convincing himself. Having not eaten since the night before, he was weak with hunger. _No, I'm not ok. You have to help me. Tell me what I want. Talk about IT with me._

He didn't seem to take the answer easily. "When was the last time you ate?"  
"…'Bout eight last night."  
His face became alarmed. "Rog, you need to EAT. You can get sick from this. You look awful today."  
But Roger shook his head and headed for the door. "I'm not hungry," he said, as his hands shook from the pleasure he had from being so close to HIM.

The following day was the same: Judy was more concerned, though, and spent a longer time trying to convince him he needed _something_. But he once again refused, and he went off to work with a gnawing, hungry pain in his stomach.  
"Roger, you look ill," his manager said. "Shut up," he responded curtly. Everyone that tried to inquire to him about his appearance was given a short, snippy comment. After that, they knew well enough to keep their mouths shut. Better to fight with an angry bear than with Roger Waters.

He felt he was getting used to not eating, but sometimes it hurt. At night, it came to haunt him terribly. He rolled around on his bed in fatigue, one that only food could settle. He was restless in the dark from his failure to quell his hunger. He groaned in pain each evening as he lay next to his wife, clutching his stomach and screwing his eyes closed tightly. Biting his lip, he would drive himself mad with the sense of starvation that gripped him until he fell asleep from the effort to settle his stomach.

But HE still didn't say anything. He didn't even _know_ about it.

Days went by, and Roger grew thinner and thinner. His wife was by now distressed, and one morning he woke up to her crying beside him, pressing her body into his and squeezing her arms around his torso.  
"Why? Why are you _doing_ this?" she wept into his arm, and Roger felt pity for her. He wished he could comfort her, but he wouldn't tell her what was ailing him. He couldn't.  
His workmates were very concerned about his health, and one of the staff from the studio even thought about calling in a doctor. But Roger insisted he had everything under control.

On his 7th day of fasting, which was the day Judy absolutely begged him on her knees to eat something, Roger was almost delirious with hunger, but still managed to pull off a response to his wife's pleas and go into the studio. But, in his weak state of mind, he forgot it was the Saturday they had planned earlier to take off and no one was there to record.

No one, that is, except HIM, who just so happened to be there in search of something for his home studio.

"Roger? What are you doing here?" he asked. But he took one closer look at him and immediately rushed him back out the door. "You're going to eat something right now," he ordered. Roger weakly allowed himself to be shunted out to his car and driven to HIS house. His thoughts and imaginations swirled with anticipation. Maybe now, they would talk about it. They arrived, where HE prepared a table of food for him. He even added a little extra, in case he himself should want any.

He pointed to the table. "Rog, you are starving to death. If you don't eat anything you will die. Eat. Something."  
But Roger refused.

He was so tired he could hardly stand. His face was haggard-looking and thin, and his entire body, which was always trim anyway, looked unhealthily skinny after just several days. His skin was extremely pale and he looked very fragile, as if one breath would knock him over and shatter him into a billion pieces.

HE was as distressed as Judy had been. He stood in front of Roger and stared into his sick face. "What do you _want_?" he begged. "Why are you doing this?"  
Roger closed his eyes, exhausted, and stumbled forward, losing his balance and falling into HIS arms, the arms that caught him lovingly. He looked up and saw his desire's face very close to his.  
"Because of you," he whispered. He looked down at the one he struggled to hold up, not knowing what possessed his friend to act like this.  
"What are you talking about?"  
Roger pulled himself up by using those delicate shoulders, stood shakily on his long legs, and pushed him back into a wall, colliding their lips together in a crooked kiss. He was overwhelmed at the fact that he was really _doing_ it, he was finally doing what he had been dreaming of and it felt _so_ good and he wished it would never end…

"I love you," he muttered to him, and HE stared back, panting, with a look on his face that couldn't be determined.  
"I stopped eating until you'd talk about it," Roger said between pauses for breath. "But you never did… so I took it upon myself."  
"Roger…" he started to say. He looked into his eyes, saw what he said was true, and brought his hand up to help support him.  
"Rog… I love you too," he answered, and Roger would have lifted him into a hug had he not been severely underweight at that moment. HE looked into his sickly eyes and smiled gently, his warm beautiful smile.  
"Come, why don't we eat together?" he invited. They took their places at the table, and Roger devoured almost everything, eating like a horse that hadn't eaten in several days straight. Because, in fact, he was.

**Author's Note:**

> I recall really enjoying writing and reading this one. I don't really remember why I made such an effort not to name Richard in the story but I guess I was just trying to set a record or something I dunno  
> Lightly edited mostly for clarity and grammar, originally written 2012ish so as usual plz be gentle~


End file.
